


Fortune's Arrows

by fardareismai2



Series: What's Past Is Prologue [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Forbidden Love, Gay Sex, Homophobic Language, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Season 3 Compliant, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai2/pseuds/fardareismai2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But it all begins with the old man. A man drunk with the power of his family and festering with the self-righteous indignation of a zealot, who would sacrifice his son’s happiness on the altar of his bigotry—and if it sealed an alliance and helped him on his quest for even more power, then all the better. Gerard, who three years before Peter ever set eyes on Kate Argent, set in motion a series of events that would change Peter’s life, all of their lives, irrevocably and horribly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortune's Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel (and prequel of sorts) to Fortune's Fools. If you haven't read it, this won't make a whole lot of sense. There is a scene with homophobic language, so if you're sensitive to that, be warned. This takes place post season 3, and I think I've still managed to massage it into something within canon possibility. I've continued to take some artistic license with werewolf mythology/ages because, frankly, they've left it all very ambiguous.
> 
> I continue to mangle Shakespeare for my titles.

My undying gratitude to [MeraNaamJoker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MeraNaamJoker) and [Thraceadams](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thraceadams/pseuds/Thraceadams) for their fuckawesome beta skills. Any mistakes still here are entirely mine.

* * *

 

 

Peter watches the funeral from a distance, knowing he wouldn’t be welcome, though he has more right than any of them to be there. Petrichor tinges the air as much needed rain begins to fall, overlaid with the twin scents of grief and salt. Part of him wants to howl, in pain and sadness, in anger and with promises of retribution, but he remains silent, observing her this one last time. His claws dig into a nearby tree as his fury seeks an outlet. He wants to tear and rend, to dispense vengeance—he’s good at vengeance—but there is no one to lash out at. The _nogitsune_ is gone, leaving a trail of pain and death in its wake that his claws and fangs can’t fix.

Jealousy washes over him as he observes each of them say their goodbyes, getting one last moment with her, one more moment stolen from him, as if the last sixteen years weren’t enough to take. He watches as Isaac crumples against Chris’s side, grief writ plain on his expressive face, and jealousy surges through him once more. Suddenly, Peter finds that anchor of hate again, because if anyone is to blame it’s Gerard, Chris, and Kate. Gerard, who forced them all into lives not of their choosing. Chris, who knowingly stole all the moments that should have been his: her first laugh and her first steps, her hugs and mischief, her first love, all that and more taken from him, selfishly. Then Kate, who burned them all and stole _everything_. His mind takes a reckless turn; if Chris and Gerard hadn’t taken her, if they’d brought her to Peter as they should have, Kate would never have set that fire. She wouldn’t have burned her own.

But it all begins with the old man. A man drunk with the power of his family and festering with the self-righteous indignation of a zealot, who would sacrifice his son’s happiness on the altar of his bigotry—and if it sealed an alliance and helped him on his quest for even more power, then all the better. Gerard, who three years before Peter ever set eyes on Kate Argent, set in motion a series of events that would change Peter’s life, all of their lives, irrevocably and horribly.

Gerard, who sits decaying and refuses to die.

His nephew turns suddenly, eyes flashing blue when he spies Peter in the tree line. Derek leans over and whispers to Stiles, who turns and looks, then nods. Stiles squeezes Derek’s shoulder, and then his nephew is striding across the cemetery towards him.

*********************************************************

_Peter watches Chris cross the street and enter the library. He wonders what the man could want inside. It’s not like there’s any real information for a hunter in a public library, and anyway, the Argent’s bestiary would have all the information a hunter needs. Peter follows._

_Peter walks through the library, his fingers trail over book spines and the barely there musty smell of them fills his sensitive nose. It’s a smell he likes, and there are times when he opens a book that he leans in and inhales, finding comfort in the vanilla-like lignin scent. Today, however, a different scent fills his senses, and he follows it._

_He’s silent as he makes his way through the stacks, feet gliding over the carpet whisper smooth. He finds Chris in the psychology section, open book in his hands. Peter creeps up behind him and looks._

_“Really, Chris? Human sexuality?” he whispers in Chris’s ear._

_There is something unendingly funny about startling a hunter. The book slams shut and falls to the ground in the same time it takes Chris to spin and press Peter up against the nearest shelf, arm lodged under his throat. Peter smiles. It’s the one everyone tells him they can’t resist. The smile that got him extra desserts when he was a child, that would make his mother relent when he got in trouble, and that even made Talia shake her head and send him on his way with a swat when she became alpha._

_It’s the smile that he knows Chris can’t resist. He slides his fingers through the belt loops on Chris’s pants and tugs him forward, even as it presses the man’s arm harder into his throat._

_“Is that any way to say hello?” he asks._

_“Jesus fucking Christ, Peter!” Chris’s arm falls away, but he doesn’t back up. “What are you doing here?”_

_Peter’s eyes widen innocently. “It’s a public library, Chris. I came to check out a book.”_

_“You’re a terrible liar, Peter.”_

_Peter shrugs. “What do you want me to say? That I followed you to have my wicked way with you in the library?”_

_Chris jumps back like he’s been goosed. “I told you we can’t. Not again. It’s not . . .I . . . my father would kill me. He’d kill you! Besides, you’re fifteen, Peter. Fifteen! This is wrong on every level.”_

_Peter doesn’t say anything at first. He bends down and picks up the book and rifles through it, his senses detecting various scents and the faint sheen of oil on the pages. He stops at chapter six. “_ Bisexuality And The Human Male _. Gods, could this be any more boring?” he asks as he thumbs the pages._

_Peter sets the book down on the shelf behind him and takes a step toward Chris. “Are you really that confused?” He drops to his knees, hands reaching for the button on Chris’s jeans._

_“What are you doing?” Chris whispers._

_“I thought it was obvious,” Peter replies as he deftly pops the button._

_“We can’t!”_

_Peter rubs the palm of his hand against the hardening bulge in Chris’s jeans. “Oh, but this is telling me we can,” he says with a smirk._

_“Peter, stop. You’re too young. Christ, I’m too old!” Chris’s mouth is talking, but he makes no effort to stop Peter._

_“Shh,” Peter hushes him. “You know it doesn’t matter. You of all people know that I’m not really fifteen. Only the human side of me is.”_

_“And it’s the human police who’ll arrest me if they catch us!”_

_Chris still isn’t pushing Peter away, and when Peter spreads the fabric of Chris’s jeans just enough to reach into Chris’s boxers and pull out his hard cock. Chris’s head hits the shelf behind him and he hisses._

_“Then be quiet and no one will catch us,” Peter tells him just before he slides his mouth over the hard flesh._

********************************************

“You don’t have to stand here by yourself,” Derek tells him. “You can—”

“Don’t patronize me!” Peter snaps. “I’m no more welcome at her funeral than I was in her life. They made sure of that.”

“Peter, she was family to me too. Just . . . just come over there with me.” Derek looks at him expectantly, hand reaching for Peter’s elbow to guide him along.

Peter steps back.

“Peter, c’mon. I can tell you’re up to something. Don’t. Whatever it is, just don’t, okay?”

Peter gives Derek _the smile_. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Peter.” Derek’s frustration is a palpable thing.

“Go back to your boy . . . friend, friends,” Peter says with a smirk.

“We’re not . . . it’s not . . . I don’t . . .”

“Derek, I don’t even need to be a wolf to know you’re lying, but I _can_ smell him on you. Smell what you feel whenever he’s around or his name comes up.”

Derek’s face is gutted. “He’s too young, Peter.”

“Derek, Derek, Derek . . . nothing is so cut and dried in our world. You know that. He’s a part of that world now and you can’t protect him from it by pretending he’s not. Not after what he’s just been through. What did he say that night? ‘Stop being a martyr?’ You should listen to your boy, Derek.”

“Stop, Peter. Just stop.”

Peter looks across the field. “He’s waiting for you. Go. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

********************************************************

_Peter pants into the sheets beneath him and whines. “Chris, please.” He feels the cold drizzle of more lube and snarls, “Damn it, Chris, that’s enough lube! Just . . .” he cuts off when Chris twists his fingers and presses down. “Fuuuuck.”_

_“I don’t want to hurt you,” Chris whispers. Peter looks up at the mirror, and sees that Chris is watching his fingers slide in and out of Peter’s ass, apparently mesmerized by the tight clutch and pull, the pink rim. Chris rocks his hips forward in anticipation, his wet cock sliding obscenely against Peter’s thigh._

_“You won’t hurt me, Chris.” Peter’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I trust you.”_

_Chris chuckles, but withdraws his fingers. No matter what Peter says, Chris isn’t going to take any chances and he uses even more lube to slick himself before he presses the head of his cock against Peter’s rim. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure, Peter. Your first time. . . .” His voice cracks a little as he trails off._

_“I’m sure! Now,” Peter’s voice is demanding, “get in me already.”_

_“So bossy,” Chris replies, but pushes forward, and that first moment when the head of his prick slips in, makes them both gasp. Chris stills._

_Peter mutters, “fuck, fuck, fuck. Please . . .more.” The pressurepushstretch hurts, but not too much and it’s giving way to a feeling of yesneedwantmore._

_Dropping his forehead between Peter’s thin shoulder blades, Chris huffs, “Give me a sec. I . . . yeah, just . . .” and he tightens his grip on Peter’s hip as he slides in, slow and steady until his hips are flush with Peter’s ass._

_“Peter,” Chris’s voice is wrecked and they’ve barely gotten started. “You’re . . . God . . . it’s so good.” He pulls back and pushes in again._

_Head dropping down to his forearms, Peter desperately tries not to claw the bed beneath him. It feels so good and right to him, to his wolf. It feels like something that skirts dangerously close to_ mate _, and although there’s no such thing as only one possible mate, Peter’s wolf is euphoric._

_He reaches down to stroke himself, but Chris bats his hand away. The strokes are jerky and erratic at first, as Chris tries to find a rhythm to fucking and stroking, but it doesn’t really matter because almost as soon as Chris figures out how to walk and chew gum at the same time, Peter comes with high whine._

_Chris strokes him through it, and when Peter’s arms give out, Chris holds him up by the hips and fucks into him hard. He thrusts one last time until he stills, flush with Peter’s ass, fingers digging in hard, and grinds against him as he empties himself with a guttural groan._

_He leans down and kisses Peter between his shoulder blades, against the side of his neck, then pulls out gently and falls to the side, pulling Peter with him. Peter is fucked out and pliant, going easily into Chris’s arms. His wolf nests._

**********************************************************

“Your security is for shit.”

Chris tries to pretend like he isn’t startled, but Peter can hear the uptick in his heart rate. “I’m not planning on staying. I just came for my things.” He turns as he speaks, but Peter continues to lean against the table. He sees Chris’s fingers twitch toward the knife sheathed at his back.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m not here to kill you, now.” The _now_ highlights the implied _yet._ “Where’s Isaac?”

“He stayed in France.”

“Alive?”

“What? Of course, he’s alive.”

“Well, a hunter and a werewolf go to France . . .” Peter trails off.

“He couldn’t stay here,” Chris replies. “It was too much for him.”

“But not for you.” Peter’s voice is hard and he pushes himself off the table. “No, it’s not too much for the hunter. Emotions don’t touch you, do they? Never have.”

Chris moves—fast—and slams Peter against a wall, right arm shoved up under Peter’s chin, left hand gripping a wolfs bane laced knife that is poised to slide right through Peter’s ribs to his heart. “Fuck. You.”

They stare at each other, perhaps a beat too long, before Peter croaks out, “Well, isn’t this familiar.”

“What do you want?” Chris bites out. “Why are you here?”

“What do I want? World peace? To be an alpha again? For Derek to stop being an idiot? For my family to still be alive? To have had a chance to raise my daughter? Take your pick. So many things, Chris, but you can’t give me a single one of them.”

Two sets of blue eyes, one bright, one icy, stare at each other, defiant and angry. Silence sits between them, heavy and thick with years of hurt and betrayal. The moments tick by, until the moment Peter sees all of Chris’s compartmentalization and rationalization and shunting of emotions come crashing down.

The arm that’s jammed under Peter’s chin moves to his neck and pulls him forward. Chris’s lips are chapped, but his mouth is hot and wet, and the kiss messy and angry and hard. There’s still a poisoned knife dangerously close to Peter’s side, but the fingers holding it are also digging into his side and the hand at the back of Peter’s neck has slid into his hair and is holding him tight.

For a moment, Peter is lost in it—lost in the _scenttastetouch_ memory of Chris’s mouth on his and the heat of Chris’s body as it presses against him. Peter’s hands are tangled in Chris’s shirt, pulling, pulling, pulling, until he feels Chris slot his leg between Peter’s, feels the hard length of him digging into his thigh. With a growl the hands that had been clutching at Chris’s shirt shove him, hard, and send Chris stumbling back across the room.

Peter’s thumb swipes at his mouth, before he angles his head to the side and cracks his neck. He straightens his shirt, and stares at Chris who is still breathing heavily through lips that are spit slick and kiss swollen. “I’m going to chalk that up to your grief.”

Chris snorts. “ _My_ grief? Okay, Peter, fine. Whatever. You’re the one who broke in. So I’ll ask again: What. Do. You. Want?”

“Gerard.”

“Gerard? As in my father? _That_ Gerard? Why?”

“Why? Don’t play stupid, Chris. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Gerard is no threat to you anymore. Why now?”

The change comes over him lightening quick, and in seconds Peter’s beta form is crouched over Chris. He traces his finger down Chris’s face. “Because it all starts with him, Chris. Everything I’ve lost, I’ve lost because of him.” He catches Chris’s chin between two claws. “Everything.”

********************************************

_It’s a risky thing to do, fucking in the Argent house. Just getting inside meant Peter had to climb to Chris’s bedroom window and wait for him to break the line of mountain ash. Hunters were always careful, even in the territory of a peaceful pack. He thinks instead of “nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent,” their family motto should be “semper vigilans.”_

_In any event, as he watches his fingers disappear into Chris’s body, he knows it’s worth the risk. They’ve been doing this for months now, sneaking around to find privacy—in the Preserve, the back of Chris’s car, that first time when they scraped together enough cash for a seedy motel room—but this is the first time in Chris’s bed. Going to Peter’s has never been an option; they’d be scented out immediately. But Gerard and his hunters are off tracking a rogue omega in San Diego and Chris's mom has taken his little sister to some family gathering. They have the house to themselves for the weekend._

_Peter loves to watch the way Chris’s body takes him in. He loves to see the way Chris comes undone for him—the way he alternately tries to keep his eyes on Peter, only to scrunch them tight in pleasure, and the way he licks his lips before he opens them on a moan, and the sweat that dots his brows, and the hands that clench and unclench on the headboard above him._

_It’s in one of those moments when Chris’s eyes are closed that Peter bends over and sucks the head of Chris’s cock into his mouth. Peter revels in the strangled sound that comes out of Chris’s mouth almost as much as the taste of him on his tongue. He loves the taste and feel of Chris in his mouth, the heft and softness of him as Peter’s tongue glides over and over the length of him. Part of him wants to make Chris come like this, but he’s hard as nails and desperate to fuck._

_When he pulls off and pulls his fingers out, Chris whines. “Damn it, I was close.”_

_Peter laughs as he slicks his cock. “I know.”_

_“Asshole.”_

_He lines his cock up with Chris’s hole. “Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he says as he pushes in, pressing into Chris with one long slide, preventing a response._

_After, when they’re both boneless and sated, sticky with sweat and come, and they lie side by side, too hot to do more than cross ankles, Chris says, “I do, you know.”_

_Peter’s breath catches and his wolf preens and tries to surface. “I—”_

_The sound of a door slamming is followed by Gerard’s voice, “Christopher? You here, boy?”_

_xxxxx_

_They both scramble so quickly and gracelessly, that Peter falls off the bed. They’d laugh if they weren’t so terrified. They barely manage to gather Peter’s things, and Chris is shoving him back out the window and remaking the line of ash. He manages to slip on a pair of sweats just as his bedroom door opens._

_“Chris?”_

_“Dad, sir, I thought you were going to be gone until tomorrow.”_

_“Didn’t you hear me calling you? What were you do—” he cuts off as he spies the bottle of lube still laying on the bed._

_Chris doesn’t expect the blow, but he isn’t entirely surprised by it either. He blinks up at his father from where he’s fallen; thumb wiping the blood from his split lip._

_“Where is he?”_

_“I don’t know—”_

_Gerard leans down and grabs Chris by the hair. “Don’t lie to me, boy. Who is he? Where is he?”_

_Chris grabs at his father’s hands helplessly. He could break the hold, he’s been trained to fight, muscle memory cued to respond to attack, but even more ingrained than that is obeying his father. “He’s no one. Just some guy. He’s gone. He’s gone.”_

_“You’re disgusting,” Gerard spits out. “But seeing as you’re the only son I have, you’re going to step up and do your duty. Argent’s are not faggots. Do you understand me?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Good.” He lets go of Chris’s hair. “Now get yourself cleaned up, and throw that out. You don’t want your mother discovering your perversions. We’re having guests. Roger and Estelle are coming. They’re bringing their daughter. You remember Victoria, don’t you? She’s a little older than you, but it doesn’t matter. You obviously need a stronger, guiding hand.”_

_“Sir, I barely know her. How can you expect me—”_

_“You will do your duty to this family. You will marry Victoria, and then I’m sending you to France. You’re going to work with your cousins.”_

_“Sir—”_

_“You will do this or you will be cast out.”_

_Chris takes a sharp breath. Being cast out of a hunter family is a final matter, and is never overturned. He would be dead to them, to all of them, even his mother and his sister. He stifles a sob at the thought of not being there for Kate. He feels a tremor of fear; a hunter without family is easy prey for vengeful creatures._

_“I understand, Sir. When do our guests arrive?”_

_“Good. They’ll be here by dinner.” He stares at Chris, still on his knees on the floor. “I hope at least that you were careful and that you didn’t take it, boy. Argents,” he says with a snarl, “don’t bend over for anyone.”_

_Chris feels shame suffuse him at his father’s words, at the disappointment and disgust in them. He drops his eyes to the ground, flushing from his neck to his hairline. His stomach turns in knots when he hears his father mutter, “Disgusting.”_

_Gerard turns to leave. His hand is on the door and his back is to Chris when he says, “If I ever find the little faggot with you, I’ll kill him.” Then he walks out._

_Chris knows the truth of those words. Feels them in his bones._

_xxxx_

_Outside Peter perches near the window. He’s heard every word, every threat and every concession made by Chris. He can’t even cross the ash line to tap the window, so he wills Chris to stand up and turn around. When Chris finally does, the momentary relief Peter feels is shattered when Chris walks to the window and with a final look, draws the blinds._

_Until that moment, Peter never knew, never fully understood the danger of placing his heart in someone else’s hands. He never imagined that you could actually feel your heart break like a physical thing. Never thought he’d feel the betrayal of hearing someone give him up without a fight. Throw him away as if he meant nothing._

_He would never let it happen again._

_************************************************_

In the end, Peter doesn’t need Chris’s willing help. He has no clue how Peter knows that Gerard is still alive, but he knows it’s futile to lie to the werewolf. With Chris tied to a chair—Chris didn’t resist much, knew Peter wouldn’t actually hurt him—Peter searches through the papers in Chris’s office until he finds a receipt for a private convalescent hospital two hours outside of Beacon Hills. He brandishes the paper with a sound of victory.

Chris doesn’t even know why he tries to stop Peter, but also doesn’t know why he doesn’t try harder to stop him. Gerard has been nothing but a brute and a hypocrite, a power-mad murderer who destroyed everyone and everything he touched. Yet he was still the man who gave Chris life and a calling, even if it was twisted at times. He was the man who, right or wrong, put Allison in his arms and unknowingly gave Chris a reason to do better, to be better. Gerard was sitting and rotting from the inside out, and while a part of Chris felt that those circumstances were justified—Gerard’s own machinations caused it—another part feels the need to plea for his father’s life.

He takes a different tack. “Peter, please don’t do this. Trust me when I tell you death would actually be a blessing for him.”

“Trust you? Why on earth would I trust you, Chris? I did that once. I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I’m the one who hurt you. Why not kill me? She’s gone. You don’t have a reason not to.”

Peter’s laugh is cruel. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? An easy out.” He places his hands on the arms of the chair and leans into Chris’s space, all the way in until his lips are at Chris’s ear. “No. You don’t get to have it easy,” he whispers. He pulls back and looks at Chris.

“Peter.” Chris’s voice is desperate and broken sounding.

When Peter kisses him, it’s cruel and quick. “I’ll make sure to send Daddy your regards.” And he leaps out the window.

Chris moves quickly, but by the time he’s free of his bindings, Peter is gone. He’s still gathering his weapons when there’s a knock at the door. Chris yanks it open to find Stiles and Scott. They both start talking at once.

“Someone took Derek!”

“Why is Peter here?”

“Peter’s here?” Stiles asks. “Good. We can use him.”

“Stiles. Stiles!” Chris interrupts. “Peter isn’t here. Now why do you think someone took Derek? It’s not like he hasn’t disappeared before.”

“What do you mean Peter’s not here?” Scott interrupts. “I can smell him on. . .” Scott’s eyes go comically wide. “Uh, okay. He’s gone. Yeah.” Scott isn’t stepping in the middle of _that_ for anything.

It’s a measure of Stiles’ anxiety that he doesn’t track Scott’s awkwardness. Chris knows what Derek means to the boy. Remembers what that was like. He refocuses the conversation to Derek.

“What happened?”

“I went to the loft, and there were signs of a fight. Spent shotgun shells, hunter shells. And blood. A lot of blood.”

Scott nods. “And it wasn’t all Derek’s.”

“Araya. It’s gotta be.”

“Who?”

“Araya. I assumed she was here because of the _nogitsune_. As far as I know, no other hunters have come into the area.” Chris grabs his phone and starts making calls. After a few minutes he slams it down in frustration. “Nothing. No one is answering.”

“Maybe there’s no one left to answer,” Scott muses.

“Then who took Derek?” Stiles asks.

They spend the next hour trying to figure that out.

Chris tries calling Araya again. “It’s got to be her.”

“Why?” Stiles asks. “Why now? He’s done nothing to her!”

They all spin around when they hear Peter’s voice. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Did you . . .”

“He wasn’t alone.”

Chris sags.

“Who?” Stiles asks.

“Your sister was with him,” Peter continues.

“Fuck you, Peter. This isn’t the time,” Stiles cuts in. “Derek is missing. If you know something—”

“My sister is dead, Peter. You of all people should know that.”

“Kate? Kate was with whom?” Scott asks.

“If this is another one of your tricks—”

“Chris, I _saw_ her.” Then he explains about Araya, the hunters’ questions about _La Loba_ , his finger. “We thought they were trying to find Cora. It’s not Cora they’re after.”

“If she’s hurt him . . . if . . .”

Stiles can’t even finish the thought, and Scott immediately jumps in with his trademark optimism. “She won’t. We’ll find him.”

Chris and Peter look at each other, knowing better than anyone what Kate is capable of.

****************************************************

 _The expression on Peter’s face when Chris walks to the window is so hopeful, Chris almost gives in. He doesn’t though. He can’t. They got lucky this time, but he knows there can’t be another. Gerard is as good as his word and he_ will _kill Peter if he finds them. Of that, Chris has no doubt—knows it in his gut, the same way he knows that Gerard wouldn’t hesitate to kill his only son if Chris was bit._

_The look Peter gives him when he begins to lower the blinds is one Chris will always remember, and always wish he could forget. So much pain is writ there, and Chris knows it’s his fault—for being weak in the first place; for not being more careful. They were stupid, so stupid to risk this in Gerard’s house. It’s over. It has to be. Chris can’t—won’t—risk Peter’s life. The thought is unbearable to him, and that is something he doesn’t want to examine too closely because if he does, he knows he won’t be able to move forward, move on and do what he must to protect them both. When the cord stops and the blind hits the sill, Chris exhales—a single sob, tiny and stifled quickly with his fist before Gerard hears._

_He hopes, however, that Peter did._

_That night, Chris plays the dutiful host. Victoria is a lovely young woman. She is smart and fierce, and everything Chris should want. And one day, he will want her. He knows it the same way he recognizes that Gerard is as cruel as his word, and the same way he understands that this is going to change Peter._

_He hopes that Peter will get past this without any lasting damage. He dreams that Peter will emerge unscathed from the scheming of hunters and the weakness of the man he loves. But Chris is a man who knows things, and he knows his hopes are futile, that they are fragile things in the cruel world of hunters and werewolves and things that go bump in the night._

_So Chris plays his role. And if he lingers on the edge of the Preserve one last time before he leaves for France, no one questions it. He twists the ring on his finger. It feels heavy and strange, like recrimination and guilt. Chris bunches his hands into fists and turns to leave. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees something, or someone, moving in the trees, but when he looks again all he sees is a fall of golden light through leaves and motes of dust drifting through the air._

_If Peter wipes the single tear from his eye as he watches Chris turn and leave, there’s no one around to see it. All he’s left with is an ache in his chest that doesn’t go away no matter how he rubs at it. His wolf wants to give chase, wants to pin the man walking away to the ground and close its jaws over his neck, claim him and keep him. The man—the boy—however, spits on the ground and growls, walks away and decides to remember the pain of this moment over everything else._

***********************************************

It’s more than twenty-four hours later and they still have no clue where Kate took Derek. Stiles is climbing the walls, and Chris is torn between sympathy and irritation. Peter is poring over maps and architectural plans from the city, and Chris watches him from across the room. They’re working together, all of them, to find Derek, but Peter has carefully maneuvered himself out of Chris’ space at every opportunity.

Chris turns his attention to Stiles and Scott. “Why don’t people stay dead in this town?” Stiles asks Scott. “I swear, if she hurts him. . . I’m going to put that bitch back in the ground.” He looks up and catches Chris’s eye. “I don’t care that she’s your sister, man.”

“I was going to put a bullet in you if it stopped the _nogitsune_ so . . .” He trails off and shrugs because really, what else is there to say?

Stiles nods at him. Understanding reached.

“We don’t have to kill anyone—”

Chris and Peter look at Scott like he’s insane, while Stiles . . . “Scott, I love you like a brother, but if you say that again, I’m going to punch you.” He grabs Scott’s shoulders. “Kate is . . . wrong. She’s bad in every way, and she needs to be stopped. Permanently. No second chances for the bad guy. Not this time.”

Chris can’t help but think of the parallels; both Peter and Kate died, and they’re both back. Neither of them should be, and neither of them really deserves that second chance, but Peter, whatever his reasons, is here, and he’s helping. He wonders what Allison would have made of it all, wonders if she would take the firing pin out this time.

The phone rings and in moments they’re all in motion and heading out the door, Scott and Stiles leading the way. At the last second, Chris snags Peter’s collar and yanks him back and kisses him, hard and fast.

“For luck,” he says and walks out the door. Peter doesn’t respond, but Chris can feel his presence just a little too close to his back. Part of him thinks it’s not close enough, and he knows they need to talk about this, but now isn’t the time. There’ll be time enough to talk after they get Derek back.

But Chris is still a man who knows things. He knows his sister, understands the power she may now possess, and thinks: _if_ they get Derek back, and _if_ they both make it back in one piece, then maybe they can have that talk.

**Author's Note:**

> In case of any confusion, the flashbacks take place three years before the flashbacks in Fortune's Fools. Argh! I originally wrote "after" not "before." Sorry if I made anyone even MORE confused!


End file.
